Moscow. O'Shea said, “I'll need about fifteen minutes of maneuvers before I feel confident with these controls.”
Alevy replied, “Try ten. We need every drop of fuel. Did that training manual help?”
“Yes, but it's no substitute for hands-on.” O'Shea added, “It's okay, men. Just relax. I'm getting it.”
Alevy put on the headphones and listened to the radio traffic from Sheremetyevo tower. He said to O'Shea, “Don't get too far west. I have to call the tower.”
“Right.” O'Shea practiced some simple maneuvers.
Alevy looked toward the east and saw the bright lights of Moscow on the distant horizon. The sky was unusually clear, very starry, but there was only a sliver of a white, waning moon tonight, he noted, which was fine. Below, the farmland and forests were in almost complete darkness.
Seth Alevy stared out the windshield. Spread before him was Russia in all its endless mystery, the land of his grandparents, a black limitless space so dark, deep, and cold that whole armies and entire nationalities—Don Cossacks, Volga Germans, Jews, and Tartars—could disappear without a trace and without a decibel of their screams being heard beyond the vast frontiers.
Alevy looked west out to where the dark sky touched the black horizon. Soon they would be plunging into that void, and though he could smell the fear around him, nothing frightened him so much as the thought that they might be too late.
Bill Brennan, sitting now behind O'Shea's seat, with his feet on the unconscious Aeroflot pilot, asked Alevy, “Do you want me to dump him?”
“There's no need for that.”
“Okay. Can I break his nose?”
“No. Just tie him up.”
Brennan tied the pilot's wrists and ankles with a length of metal flex.
Bert Mills looked at his watch. “We're about five minutes overdue at Sheremetyevo.”
“Right.” Alevy said to O'Shea, “Let's kill all the lights.”
O'Shea scanned the instrument panel and referred to an Mi-28 cockpit diagram that he and Hollis had made up with English subtitles some weeks ago.
“Here,” Alevy said. This says 'navigation lights.'
“That's the one.”
Alevy hit the switch and the outside lights went out. “You just fly, Captain.” He took the diagram from O'Shea and found the interior light switch and flipped it, throwing the cabin and cockpit into darkness. The instrument lights cast a pale red glow over Alevy and O'Shea's face and hands.
The effect of the nearly total darkness inside and outside was somewhat eerie, Alevy thought, and he could hear the other three men's disembodied breathing above the sound of the rotor blades. Alevy held the diagram on his lap and scanned it. He found the radio transmit button on the cyclic grip. “Okay.” He depressed the transmit button and suddenly shouted in Russian into the mouth mike of his headset, Kontroler! Kontroker!
A few seconds later the control tower at Sheremetyevo replied, “Kontroler.”
Alevy said excitedly in Russian, “This is Aeroflot P one one three—lost engine power—” He stopped talking, but continued depressing the button the way a pilot would do as he contemplated the ground rushing up at him. Alevy screamed in Russian, “God—!” then lifted his finger from the button and heard
Sheremetyevo tower in his headphones, “—one one three, come in, come—” Alevy shut off the radio power and removed his headphones. That should keep them busy searching for wreckage, as well as making them reflect on man's need for divine comfort in the last second of life. Okay, Captain O'Shea, let's head west.
O'Shea swung the tail boom around and pointed the Mi-28 west, then opened up the throttle and changed the pitch angle of the rotor blades. “This thing moves.”
Alevy looked out over the dark landscape. “Let's get down there, Captain, and find a place to park it awhile.”
O'Shea began his descent from twelve hundred meters. As the ground came up, Alevy, Brennan, and Mills scanned the terrain. Brennan said, “Forest there. Open farmland over there. Too open. There's something—what's that?”
They all looked out to starboard at a light-colored area about five hundred meters away.
Alevy said, “Get in closer, Captain.”
O'Shea slid the helicopter to the right and dropped in closer. He said, “It looks like an excavation. A quarry or gravel pit.”
“That'll do,” Alevy said.
O'Shea banked around toward the large shallow excavation that appeared to encompass about an acre dug out of the open plains northwest of Moscow. “Okay,” O'Shea said, “let's see if this helicopter knows how to land.”
O'Shea looked below to see if there were any smokestacks or anything that would give him an indication of the wind direction, but he saw nothing. He guessed that the wind would be coming from the northwest as it usually did this time of year, and he banked around so he could make his landing heading into what he hoped was the prevailing wind.
He maintained a constant rpm so there would be no variation in torque forces that could make the craft yaw around its vertical axis. The pedals, which were reversed because the rotor direction was reversed, were his major problem; what should have been second nature was becoming a thought process, like driving a British car on the left side of the road.
Alevy said, “You're doing fine.”
“You talking to me?” O'Shea's instinct was to glide in at a shallow angle, as with a fixed-wing, but he knew he had to maintain sufficient altitude until the last few seconds in the event he did something to stall the engine, which would necessitate an au-torotative landing; a free fall that could only be made successfully if there was time to throw the transmission into neutral, adjust the pitch of the blades, allowing the uprushing air to turn the rotors to produce enough lift to cushion the crash.
He was coming in at about forty-five degrees, and the altimeter showed five hundred meters.
He began decreasing airspeed with the collective pitch stick and throttle. As the collective pitch was adjusted, he increased his pressure on the right rudder to maintain the heading and increased the throttle to hold the rpm steady. Simultaneously he coordinated the cyclic stick with the other controls to maintain the proper forward airspeed. He wished he had another hand.
The helicopter passed over the edge of the excavation at one hundred meters' altitude, and O'Shea realized the pit was deeper than he'd thought. The opposite wall of the pit was less than a hundred meters away now, and he was still about one hundred meters above the bottom of the excavation at an angle of approach that would put the craft into the fast-approaching wall. He felt sweat forming under his arms.
O'Shea immediately decreased the collective, simultaneously increasing rearward pressure on the cyclic, like reining in a horse. The craft's nose rose higher, and it began to slow. He resisted the temptation to cut the throttle, which seemed the natural thing to do to bleed off airspeed, but which would have led to a stall. “Damn… stupid helicopter.”
The helicopter continued to slow, but O'Shea knew he was in a tail-low attitude, and the rear boom might hit the ground before the wheels did.
The rotor's downwash raised huge billows of dust and gravel, obscuring O'Shea's visibility, and he had to look at the artificial horizon indicator to see if he was horizontal to the ground. The downwash was creating a turbulence that was interfering with his ability to hold the craft steady. He could see neither the ground nor the excavation wall to his front and was hoping to touch the ground with his wheels before he touched the wall with his nose. “I can't see… can anybody see!”
Alevy replied, “Relax. You're fine.”
O'Shea knew that he was too nose-up and tail-down and that the helicopter was now tilted to the left and was still moving forward faster than it was descending. He also realized he had lost control. He made a decision and twisted the throttle shut, hoping that gravity would do what he could no longer do. “Hold on!” The nose dropped, and the whole craft fell the last few feet but not straight down, the left landing-wheels hitt
ing first. “Damn it!” O'Shea shut off the engine as the entire craft rocked from side to side, the rotor blades barely clearing the ground.
Finally the craft settled into the gravel, and the rotors wound down. They all sat silently as the dust settled, clearing their view. Alevy looked around the excavation. It was indeed some sort of open quarry. He saw a few wooden sheds to the right and earth-moving equipment but no sign of workers or watchmen. Alevy commented to O'Shea, “Are you on the upsweep of a learning curve, Ed?”
O'Shea drew a breath and nodded. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. “I got this thing figured out now.”
Brennan opened the sliding door, and he and Mills carried the unconscious Aeroflot pilot out of the helicopter. They dragged him through the gravel away from the helicopter and removed his Aeroflot flight suit, leaving him tied hand and foot in his underwear.
Alevy and O'Shea carried their luggage out and piled it some distance from the helicopter. Alevy opened one of the suitcases with a key and removed three KGB Border Guard uniforms, along with black boots, caps, four Soviet watches, pistols, and three KGB greatcoats. Alevy, Mills, and Brennan changed into the KGB uniforms, while O'Shea put on the Aeroflot pilot's flight suit.
As Alevy buttoned his greatcoat, he scanned the rim of the pit but couldn't see much in the darkness. “I think we can wait it out here.”
Mills surveyed the pit. “I didn't see any lights or signs of life coming in.” He looked at his Soviet watch. “If this thing works, it's ten thirty-two. We're going to miss our Finnair flight.”
Brennan chuckled as he strapped on a leather belt with a holster that held a silenced 9mm Makarov automatic. Alevy and Mills strapped on their holsters also, and O'Shea slipped his automatic into the pocket of his flight suit. They synchronized their watches, then heaped their civilian clothes, passports, visas, watches, and wallets onto the stack of luggage, then threw the Beriozka bags and attache cases on top of that. Alevy took the satin box of amber beads from his trench coat and transferred it into his KGB greatcoat.
Brennan reached into the open suitcase and retrieved the last items: two cylindrical phosphorus incendiary grenades with timers. Brennan set the grenades' timer for three hours and shoved them into the pile of luggage and clothes.
Alevy said, “Let's go.” They all returned to the helicopter.
O'Shea climbed back into the pilot's seat, and Alevy again sat in the copilot's seat. Brennan and Mills sat behind them. Alevy asked O'Shea, “What is your estimate of our maximum available flight time?”
O'Shea thought a moment, then replied, “As I said when we first discussed this, helicopter flying time is very hard to estimate. Fixed-wing craft have more defined parameters. You take off, fly, and land. With a chopper, you do other things. Like hover, which burns a lot of fuel.”
Alevy let O'Shea talk, because he knew O'Shea had to talk it out. Also, because they had three hours to kill.
O'Shea went on, “A lot has to do with winds, air temperature, load, altitude, and the type of maneuvers we get involved with. It has to do with me not wasting fuel, but I'm not familiar enough with this craft to squeeze the most flight time and distance out of the least amount of fuel.” O'Shea said nothing for a while, then answered Alevy's question. “Worst case would be two hours' flight time. Best, about four hours.”
“Straight line distance?”
“Figure… at about a hundred mph, two to four hundred miles.”
Bert Mills remarked, “Even best case is going to be a damned close thing.”
Brennan, who didn't seem interested in the subject of fuel, was checking his Makarov automatic. He slid the magazine in and out, then worked the slide mechanism like a man who's had some bad experiences using other people's guns. He said, “Everybody check their weapons.”
Everyone did as Brennan said, as he was the mission armorer.
Brennan then rummaged through Alevy's large overnight bag that had been left aboard and took out the broken-down pieces of a Dragunov sniper rifle and quickly assembled it in the dark. He mounted a four-power night scope on the rifle and loaded it, then pointed the rifle through the windshield and turned on the electronic scope. “Not bad for made in the USSR.”
“They make some nice weapons,” Mills remarked.
Brennan shut off the scope and laid the rifle at his feet.
Alevy said to Brennan, “There are two aerial survey maps in the bag.”
Brennan found the maps and handed them forward. Alevy gave one to O'Shea, who laid it out on his lap. Alevy handed him a red penlight, and O'Shea studied the map.
Brennan was still rummaging through the bag. “Phosphorus grenades, extra ammunition, a little of this, and a little of that. Inventory complete.” He said to Alevy, “It's none of my business, but where did you get these uniforms and hardware? And how did you keep the room maid from seeing everything?”
Alevy replied, “That little antique store in the Arbat has a costume shop in the basement. The hardware came in the diplomatic pouch. As for the nosy maids, I had that bag and the suitcase delivered to the lobby from the outside just before we boarded the bus.”
Brennan said, “I want you to know something, Mr. Alevy. I have a lot of confidence in you, and I don't think for a minute this is a suicide mission. Also, I like Colonel Hollis. He's a straight shooter. And I liked his lady. That's why I'm here and not in London.”
No one added anything to that for a few minutes. Then O'Shea said, “I don't want anyone to get anxious about the flying. Think about what you have to do. I'll take care of the flying.” He added, “The principles of flight remain the same even here and even if the rotors do go the wrong way.” He tried a laugh, but it came out wrong.
Bert Mills said, “This damned uniform is pinching my crotch.”
Brennan remarked, “That's because KGB tailors don't have to allow room for balls.”
Alevy said to Brennan, “Bill, there's a blue Beriozka bag I left back there. I got Bazooka bubble gum and some other things. Pass it around.”
“Bazooka? Hey, thanks.” Brennan found the gum and passed the bag to Mills, who took a candy bar. He passed it up to O'Shea, who declined. Alevy sucked on a hard candy. Brennan blew a big bubble, and it popped. Brennan said, “Hey, it's Halloween. Happy Halloween.”
No one answered.
Brennan added, “I've seen some scary costumes for Halloween, but these outfits are the scariest fucking things I've ever seen.”
Mills forced a laugh. “Where we're going you'll see about five hundred more of those scary outfits.”
“Thanks,” Brennan said.
The minutes passed in silence except for the ticking of the cooling engine and the sound of popping bubble gum. Alevy said to everyone, “Relax.”
* * *
38
The VFW hall held close to a thousand people, but it was the quietest thousand people Hollis had ever been among.
The building was surrounded by armed KGB Border Guards, and no one was permitted to leave until midnight. The main recreation room was darkened, lit only by black candles and the grinning faces of jack-o'-lanterns. In the barroom and all the side rooms, men and women congregated, speaking in hushed, angry tones. Occasionally someone would weep. For the amount of food and liquor available, Hollis noticed that no one was drunk, and the food remained untouched, even by the students, who Hollis thought seemed very uncomfortable. The masks, Hollis reflected, were off, literally and figuratively; no one was wearing the party masks, and no one was acting his part.
In the center of the recreation room sat a black-draped coffin on a bier, a party decoration that had taken on another significance. No one stood around the coffin.
Burov had not put in an appearance, and Hollis pictured him in his dacha, sitting with his wife near the porcelain stove, reading Pushkin or perhaps watching an American movie on videotape.
Hollis, who knew he would not be among the ten randomly picked for execution, felt somewhat guilty at being one of only two American
s in the hall who wasn't contemplating his imminent death. Lisa, he knew, felt the same.
When he had told Lewis Poole of Burov's plans to execute Dodson and ten others, they had discussed the possibility of not putting out the news. But Poole, Lisa, and he had concluded that everyone had a right to know.
There had been some incidents during the so-called party: Jane Landis had spit in the face of a student, and the stereo that had been playing funereal music to set the mood of the theme party had been kicked to pieces by one of the kidnapped American women, Samantha Wells. Two American fliers, Ted Brewer and another man, had gone outside and tried to push their way past the cordon of Border Guards but were forcibly carried back inside. Captain Schuyler, whom Hollis had met on the path with Poole and Lieutenant Colonel Mead, had punched one of the students, but the fight had been quickly broken up.
To the students' credit, Hollis thought, they took the verbal abuse and looked rather sheepish. Certainly, Hollis reflected, the school would be closed for weeks if not months after this mad night.
General Austin sat in a small study, speaking briefly with groups of men and women, twenty and thirty at a time until most of the two hundred eighty-two Americans under his command and their wives and girlfriends had been addressed by him. Hollis made his way into the study and heard Austin say, To attempt to escape is our only pure and uncompromised act here.
So we shall try again and again and again. There won't be ten years between attempts. There wont even be twelve months until the next one. And if they want to shoot us ten at a time for each attempt, so be it. This school is closed.
Hollis listened awhile, then went into the barroom and got a glass of beer. Lisa found him and held his arm. “Sam, I can't take much of this.”
Hollis glanced at his watch. “Another few minutes. At midnight it's over.”
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